


for you're outward bound

by tosca1390



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission is a mission, he thinks even as his mouth goes dry and his pulse races.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you're outward bound

**Author's Note:**

> In the same world as **whenever i'm alone with you**.

*

“I’m excited,” Darcy murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion.

“You sound it,” Phil says dryly.

All is quiet in headquarters, as it theoretically should be in the middle of the night. Phil is always a little wary when it’s too quiet, but he’s been too distracted to care at the moment. He lays on his back, staring up at his ceiling. The sheets are cool against his skin, rumpled at his waist. He trails his fingers along the smooth flesh of her arm, brushing through her hair as it lays in thick waves down her shoulders.

She smiles, half of her face pressed into his pillow. “I mean it. I’m excited.”

“About what?” he asks, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh over her ribs.

“Prague.”

His muscles still, fingers digging into her side. There’s a weird tightness in his chest at the thought of Prague. A mission is a mission, he thinks even as his mouth goes dry and his pulse races. “Ah.”

Rising up on her elbows, she pushes her hair back from her face. “You do remember that I’m going, right?” she asks, propping her chin in her hands.

The sheets fall at the small of her back, pale as her skin. Even in the dim light, he can see the changes in the lines of her muscles, the tone, different from when she first arrived. Natasha has toned and strengthened her, but there is still a softness to her waist that Phil likes. The curve of her breast is shadowed now between the sheets and bed. When she touches him, there is a new strength behind her fingertips, but her smile and her laugh are still the same, her incessant sarcasm still present. He’s glad for that. He wants her to be prepared, but he doesn’t want her to change completely, into something more like them, and him.

“Of course I do. I gave you the assignment.”

She bites her lip on a smirk he can see coming a mile away. He slides his hand up to tangle in the loose curls of her hair. “You’re a powerful man, Phil. I can’t begin to imagine what you remember and what you don’t,” she teases.

His hand cradles to the curve of her head, his fingers tightening in the waves. “I remember,” he repeats, tongue thick in his mouth.

“Your brow is furrowing,” she says with a laugh, touching the lines of his face lightly. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have Natasha and Tony,” she adds, tilting her head.

“I know,” he repeats, getting the words out through gritted teeth.

“So why do you look ten years older than you are right now?”

He wets his lips. “I’m nervous for every mission.”

“You’re a liar,” she laughs, leaning in and pressing her mouth to his. “You’re nervous because it’s me.”

“Don’t push it,” he murmurs at her lips.

She shifts over the bed, straddling his hips. Her knees press into the mattress. Hair falls dark across her shoulders. He slides his hands to the curve of her waist, fingers spanning her pale skin.

“You’ve gone soft, Son of Coul,” she says quietly.

“Not in all ways,” he retorts, trailing his eyes over her.

Her laugh curls over the music in the background, a low hum in the room. She likes to put their playlists on whenever she’s there, and it always seems like she has a new one made for him at any given time. “You really shouldn’t worry. Dealing with catty, bitchy, murderous girls is a skill of mine,” she says lightly as her fingers slide over his chest and stomach towards his hips. “I was in a sorority you know.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she says, curling her fingers around his length. He hardens in her easy grip. “My mom made me.”

“It’s not in your file,” he says with a cut-off groan.

She shrugs. “My dirty little secret, I guess. I made it work for me. Made mixes for all of their first times, and breakups, and life events, and charged handsomely.”

“Prospective agent demonstrates ingenuity in challenging situations,” he says, voice settling low in his throat as she strokes him with light fingertips.

“I love when you talk agent to me,” she teases, warmth radiating from her skin.

“Why did you charge?”

“How else do you think I could afford to run off to New Mexico for a non-paid internship without my parents’ approval?” she asks wryly, sighing as his fingers curl at the inside of her thighs.

He laughs, breath hitching in his chest. “Prospective agent demonstrates determination and goal setting.”

“So sexy, Agent Coulson,” she murmurs as she leans over him, a pale comma of skin and muscle. Her hair falls as a curtain around their daces. She kisses him with a sigh, soft and open and slow.

He shuts his eyes and slides his tongue against hers as his fingers delve into the warm wet between her thighs. Her skin comes alive under his touch and mouth, the creamy expanse of it flushing pink. He tries to mark the tone of her voice as she moans his name, the bite of her nails into his skin. She is sweet and tart on his tongue, low laughs and high moans. He tucks all of it into the back of his mind, for when she is gone.

He doesn’t think about last times. Phil Coulson isn’t that sentimental.

*

As is her wont, she slips out early, before headquarters comes alive. The team as a whole seems to either be unaware of the two of them, or very polite in keeping their thoughts to themselves. Phil leans towards the former, for the most part; if Stark and Barton knew he was, to quote the vernacular, “getting some”, he’d never hear the end of it. Thor and Rogers most likely would have threatened him, given how close they are to Darcy. Natasha might know, out of all of them; but she plays everything close to the chest, closer than Phil sometimes likes. She has no reason to rat them out, and she never would.

So, he and Darcy keep it to themselves, and he likes it that way. He’s given all of his life and self to S.H.I.E.L.D.; he thinks now he can have something for himself.

From bed, he watches her as she dresses in the darkness, his blood pounding hard in his ears. “There won’t be a sendoff,” he says at last, sitting up. The sheets fall to his waist.

Darcy pulls her black tank over her head and grins. “No parade? I’m sad.”

“Nope,” he says evenly. “You just go.”

Her eyebrows quirk upwards as she bites her bottom lip. “And this wasn’t a sendoff?”

“Not a public one.”

She pulls her arms through the sleeves of her worn red flannel, shaking her hair out down her shoulders. “Well, thanks for it.”

He hesitates for just a moment before reaching into the drawer of his nightstand, and pulls out a plain black package. “Here,” he says, holding it out to her.

Jeans undone at the hips, she sits back down on the bed near him, taking the box in both hands. “I didn’t know we were at the gift stage, Phil.”

“Just open it.”

She grins, opening the box. He looks away for a moment, his hands pressed into his knees. With a sharp inhale of air, she makes a low sound of pleasure. It sends an odd sort of thrill down his spine.

“It’s beautiful,” she says with a sharp little squeal.

He looks back at her, rubbing the nape of his neck. She holds the sleek black taser in her hands, fingers trailing over the smooth surface lovingly. There is a high flush to her cheeks, her smile splitting her face.

“I thought you needed an upgrade,” he says after a moment.

Grinning, she leans over and kisses him, a hand rising to his jaw. “I can’t wait to use it.”

“I hope you don’t have to,” he says at last, his hand falling to her thigh.

Sighing, she bites at his lip. “Going soft, Phil,” she says gently, her fingers curling at the nighttime scruff on his jawline.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, flustered for a moment. She does this to him, has wormed her way into his darkest hidden parts and made a home. “Be careful.”

She smoothes a hand over his cheek, patting him gently. “I was born careful, baby.”

With a last kiss to the corner of his mouth, she’s gone. They are not much for goodbyes; he’s been on three missions in the past few months, and there’s been nothing but smiles and wishes for good luck, no tears. They are not sentimental people. He likes that about her; it helps her fit in well.

Still, as Phil lays back down and stares at the ceiling, his heart beats a strange tattoo against his ribs. It’s worry he tastes on his tongue, and he doesn’t like it.

*

It’s just four days. Stark is going to Prague with Pepper for a business meeting; Natasha and Darcy are going along to do reconnaissance work on an all-female group of weapons dealers that HYDRA contracts from. Darcy goes because she needs the task, she’s excellent with computers, and she has a surprising talent for accents. She tells Phil she took an acting class or two in college, and refined her talents there; he thinks that’s a bunch of bullshit, but he’s not thinking about that now.

What he _is_ thinking about, as he sits in the cafeteria long past midnight with lukewarm coffee and a bunch of case reports he’s been neglecting for the past few days, is that it’s been almost forty-eight hours and they haven’t heard anything from Darcy and Natasha. Tony and Pepper haven’t heard from them either. They’re supposed to meet at the private airstrip outside the city in twenty-four hours, and the silence is deafening.

“It’s a little late for coffee, don’t you think?” Barton asks as he strolls into the cafeteria, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. He’s been labeled inactive for the last two weeks recovering from broken ribs, and to say he was testy was an understatement. Adding to the mix Natasha being out on a mission without him, and, well. Phil didn’t like to pry.

“It’s morning somewhere,” Phil replies evenly, sipping from his mug. The coffee is weak and too pale in the fluorescent light. When Darcy isn’t here to make it, one of the other agents does. It’s never as good.

“Like Prague,” Barton says with a sharp little smile, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Do you stay up all night when I’m away, Coulson?”

“Yes. I’m sleepless with worry over you,” Phil says flatly.

“No need to be testy,” Barton says with a smirk. “We’re all worried for the kid.”

Bile rises in the back of his throat. “She’s not a kid.”

Shrugging, Barton crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles flexing with the movement. “I think everybody’s a kid on their first job.”

Phil doesn’t say anything, turning his attention back to his files. He doesn’t know how to say anything without completely compromising himself, and her. This is the problem with secrets in a work environment, he thinks. Eventually someone is going to want to crack.

He just didn’t think it would be _him_.

“You’re right about one thing,” Barton says after a while, a sly tease to his voice. “She’s definitely not a kid.”

Phil’s fingers curl into the paperwork, crumpling the edges. Heat rises at the back of his neck. Jaw tightening, he doesn’t say a word.

“Good god, Coulson. You didn’t think we knew?” Barton asks.

Glancing over, Phil grits his teeth together. “Knew what?”

Barton rolls his eyes, shrugging. “How long have we worked together? As grumpy and out-of-sorts as you want to be, you relax when she comes into the room. It’s hard not to notice.”

“And you divined all of this, did you?” Phil asks flatly.

“I’m more than a pretty face and a good shot,” Barton retorts easily.

Phil grunts soft and low in his throat. His fingers itch for his taser. “And I’m sure Agent Romonoff has nothing to do with your sudden emotional intellect?”

Flashing a sharp grin, Barton pushes off the counter and walks towards the door. “If you want to beat up through the concern, let me know. I’m bored.”

The next morning, sleepless and annoyed with himself, Phil takes Barton up on his offer, and beats up on him for a while in the workout rooms. It helps. But not enough.

*

Phil is there when Darcy wakes up. He has rarely come to her room, as she prefers his sound system to hers; however, she is on bed rest, so it just makes sense. He has spent the last twenty minutes cataloging the bruises on her arms, the yellowing shiner on her left eye. There are bandages at her waist he can’t see because of the blankets, but he read the report. He’s read it ten times by now, and debriefed Natasha, who didn’t come out unscathed either.

The likelihood of something going awry on one of these missions is higher than people like to think. Phil knows the risk when he sends his people out, and when he goes out himself. HYDRA is everywhere, and as tight as their security is, leaks happen. It’s a fact of the business, of the job.

Right now is the first time he really has trouble with it.

“Ow,” is the first thing out of her mouth when she wakes up. The doctors have had her sedated since the plane ride back to the States. “Ouch. Ow.”

Suddenly, Phil’s throat is too tight. “Hey there,” he says at last, sitting a few feet away from her bedside. The smell of every flower in the city thickens the air. Thor, upon hearing the news, got a little overzealous in ordering all the get-well bouquets in a ten mile radius. Rogers got in on the action too, and, well, now the entire mansion smells like a garden.

Barton had sat him down in the cafeteria with a bottle of scotch. Phil had enjoyed that much more than the constant sound of the buzzer with another round of flower deliveries.

Darcy turns her head on her pillow, smiling slightly. “Fancy seeing you here,” she murmurs, voice thick with painkillers.

Phil’s hands curl around the mission report, for a lack of anything to do. He wants to touch her, but he’s not sure he really does, either. “How are you feeling?”

“Are they giving me the good stuff? Because I could use some more of it,” she mumbles, touching her face gingerly.

“You’re getting the best care,” he says after a moment, tone measured.

She drops her hands to the blankets, her fingers twining in the edges. “Well, I figured you guys weren’t going to leech me.”

He looks away, at a rather ostentatious bouquet of Gerbera daisies. He doesn’t want to know how much all these flowers cost S.H.I.E.L.D., especially when it’s almost February and everything is out of season except in tropical climates.

Murmuring, she shifts her weight, biting her lip. “Are you going to debrief me?”

Glancing at her, he uncurls his fingers. “Not now.”

“You never wait when it’s one of the others,” she says, voice suddenly sharp. “Don’t treat me like a kid, Phil.”

“I’m – I’m _not_ ,” he says through his teeth.

She shuts her eyes, cheek pressed to her pillow. The skin around her black eye is puffy and swollen still. “I did everything right. The meetings were going well, and I was getting the intel you needed, and then it just shifted. They knew, okay? Someone told them who Natasha was, and –“

He rises and moves his chair closer to her bed, unable to keep still any longer. His hand settles over hers on the top of the blanket. Her skin is cool to the touch. “You did very well,” he says quietly, voice dropping low in his throat. “Natasha, Stark – everyone said so.”

She hums softly, opening her eyes. “I didn’t let them take the intel.”

“Hence the bruises, I would imagine.”

“Pretty much.” She sighs, a wince twitching the lines of her face. “The taser came in handy.”

“I didn’t see it with your personal effects,” he says, his fingers curling around hers.

A frown curls her mouth. “I dropped it when they knocked me out, or something. Oh, shit. It was so good, too. I’m sorry –“

He shakes his head and smoothes his free hand over her brow, fingers carding gently through the tangled waves of her hair. “It’s fine. I’ll get you another one.”

Smiling slightly, she brushes her fingers against his. “Okay.” Her gaze flickers around the room. “Holy shit, did you turn my room into a greenhouse while I was gone?”

“Blame Thor and Rogers. They were a little distraught when they heard.”

“They’re sweet guys,” she murmurs, shifting her weight again. “God, when you get punched, it _hurts_. As do tire irons.”

“No girls with tire irons in the sorority, huh?” he asks, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. He knows what happened to her, but it doesn’t make it easier to hear, especially right from her mouth.

“Not so much,” she murmurs, gaze heavy. “Hey, no music? You should turn on playlist number twenty-two.”

He rises and moves to the iPod hook-up. “A new one?”

“Made it on the plane ride over. Had another planned for the ride back, but the sedation got in the way of all that.”

His thumb rolls over the touch pad of the player as he settles on the correct playlist. It’s another one for the two of them, titled _Tasers_. “Cute,” he murmurs, pressing play and moving to sit back down next to her.

She yawns, shutting her eyes. “I thought so, too,” she murmurs, reaching for his hand. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“Pissed as hell. But not at you,” he says quietly.

“Works for me,” she mumbles.

He hesitates just a moment before he leans over and presses his lips against her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “Go back to sleep.”

Her fingers tighten in his as their hands rest on the blanket. “Going to leave?”

“No,” he says, watching as her breathing evens out, and she falls back asleep, her face still lined with pain and shadowed with discoloration.

Phil is not a sentimental person. He can’t be in his job. But he stays with her through the night. There’s something more to the two of them than sentiment.

*


End file.
